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The Luminescent Sun
1 T'he air was heavy, breaths were held, fists were tightly clenched. Hundreds of men, women, and children had gathered around the center of what they all called home. A large dirt circle, with large stones littered with crude carvings along the edge, now filled with almost a quarter of the tribe, each of them gripping some sort of device within their hands. Many were literal instruments, while others were torches or staves fashioned from carved tree limbs, or spears carved forged with some of the primitive iron-working techniques seen on the planet in centuries, perhaps millennia. Before this day, life seemed so very simple for these people. They honored the lands around them, and it rewarded them in turn. In exchange for keeping the populations in check with their hunting, the forest gave them a bountiful harvest. For returning the unused body parts of creatures they had killed, fresh trees would sprout within the next few years, giving them more material for their own homes. It may not have been fulfilling, and sometimes downright dangerous due to the creatures of the deeper woods, but they had very little to worry about other than their own survival. They had but three basic rules other than the obvious ones of "Do your part" and "Don't kill anybody"; Keep themselves from other, less enlightened tribes. Honor the land around them. And never, no matter how tempting it seemed, go towards the metallic land. To do so would result in death, or perhaps even more horrors that could not be told. All many of them knew about that place is that years ago, their ancestors fled it to escape a terror that could one day come to them. It was a fear that haunted them, the one true thing that made their otherwise simple lives troubling. But now, as the dying light of the setting sun basked the villagers in a warm, orange glow that cast itself across them and their wooden hovels, everything was about to change. For every single one of them, utopia awaited. In the direct middle of the circle, surrounded by his village, the standing stones, all the instrument-wielders, and as far as he knew, the entirety of the forest itself, stood the clan's Druid. His torso was bare, covered only by the raven fur that was cast across his body, adorned now with stark white paint that drew simple, yet elegant, symmetrical patterns meant to resemble vines growing across his form. As they reached his neck, they branched out, with a pair of the 'vines' coiling around his arms, ending in a point just above his hands. The other pair went upwards to his neck, making it to his cheeks before branching out once again, one pair running across the sides of his snout, while the other traveled further north towards his eyes, before turning into more-or-less eye shadow that highlighted the icy blue hues they surrounded. Very barbaric eye shadow. His dark, obsidian hair cascaded down his back, over the cloak, and stopping just a little bit below his waist. It was on the straighter side, but as it neared the ends it began to curl naturally. Around his head resided what resembled a circlet, only carved from wood. Like the paint along his body, it was had no truly outlandish designs, but it was very clearly made with care. It was smooth to the touch, carefully sanded down so that it would not splinter anyone handling or, more importantly, wearing it. The most elaborate part of the circlet was at the front, where rather than meeting together normally, the two ends of the wood coiled around one another, like a pair of snakes wrapping around one another, before meeting at the top to form a singular point. His back was covered with a cloak, the simplest of his outfit aside from the very plain brown cloth leggings that he was wearing. The garment draped over his shoulders, hanging downwards and nearly touching the ground, stopping just above the heels of his bared feet. It was fashioned of the fur of a winter beast, so it was very thick and heavy, not meant to be worn for long periods of time. At least not for warm, spring evenings like the one it was currently out for. The edges of the cloak were adorned with leaves of all colors; Brown, golden, red. All had been gathered during the previous autumn, for this particular moment. Perhaps the more complex piece of this man's outfit was his staff. At first glance it seemed like a regular tree limb with the bark carved off. But a closer look revealed that it was coated from end to end with carvings. Some were relatively simple patterns; like leaves and branches wrapping around the circumference of the tool, while others were depictions of beasts that stalked the forests. From hulking predators to nimble prey, it seemed as though every beast in the woods was on the staff. The top of it was no simple, rounded tip, either. The wood had been carved to give the appearance of almost a dozen small branches erupting from the top, spreading in all different directions, sometimes curving in on themselves, sometimes intertwining with others. "Con Shtál." Were the first words out of the Druid's mouth, and the every one of the men and women gathered echoed them. With that, he knew there was no turning back. His entire life had been building up to this very moment. Summoning their god itself. Certainly not an easy feat, which is why the entirety of the village had gathered in aid of it. The Druid raised his staff, and it began. The instruments began to play; Drums fashioned from the hides of animals were beaten with hard, steady pounds. Flutes carved from tree limbs were blown into, the fingers of their players dancing across the holes dug into the rods. Crude, yet effective violins had their strings, made of animal hair, pressed and stroked. Alongside the instruments themselves, the villagers let out periodic chants. Their voices mixing into one, powerful shout that echoed across throughout the forest. The sudden noise startled the resting birds in their perches, which quickly flapped their wings and took to the skies surrounding them. The torch bearers began their part, waving the flames around in cyclical patterns, whilst they stepped into their movements. It was as if they were dancing, and the fire was their partner. No, their leader. They followed the way it moved, gracefully stepping towards it, only to have it turn another way moments later. And somehow, they were all in sync. Every one of the fire dancers was doing so together, as if they were one being. The last of the bunch in the circle were the wielders of spears and, compared to the Druid, simple staves. They began to beat the ground with the ends of their tools. All out of place, at first, all of them really appearing as though they just wanted to beat the grass beneath their feet. But with every thud of wood hitting earth, it became more in tune. Two of them hit the ground together. Then five. Then twelve. And so on, until every one of them was landing at once, adding a more thunderous echo to the beating of the drums. All of it was coming together. In perfect harmony came a song loud enough to be heard for in the otherwise tranquil forest around them. The Druid took a deep breath, the scent of burning wood entering his nostrils, the music and chanting of his people bombarding his ears, the vibrations of the beating staves and pounding drums rumbling in his chest, he knew it was time now. He raised his staff to the sky, crying out, "Con Shtál! We have heard your ways! We have honored the lands around us! We have returned to what you intended us to be!" With a pound of his staff to the ground, the Druid took a brief moment to breathe, before shouting, "We know not of what terrors lie beyond this sacred land! Only that they must be defeated for the good of us all! We have asked much of you in the past, and you have given us much! But now we ask the ultimate boon from you!" Gripping the staff in both hands, the Druid raises it to the sky, his voice straining and throat stinging as he cries out with all his might, "Con Shtál! Deliver us from the evil of the metal lands! Bring us into your loving embrace, that we may be free of the fear that looms over us!" 2 '''B'etween the dusk of wake and the dawn of sleep lied mind's hypnagogia; an umbral mindscape wherein the terrain is dark and mysterious but the eyes to view it are wide and bright. It is not meditation, for meditation is voided consciousness. It is consciousness shaking hands – passing the torch – to its somnic sister. This ephemeral unity does not last long. With bated breath does the sister exhaust the light and with caressing hand she guides the soul into the great unknown in hopes to help them unravel shrouded enigmas hidden away from their diurnal visage. Often do clutched riddles wriggle through fingers no matter how hard they may grasp and claw; reality's wakefulness too brash and blinding, engineered by the physical world whom is a domineering lord with too much gravitas for his own good. He reaches far from The Deep with strong hands and snatches down the dreamer, slamming them upon reality's coldsteel floor and alas, æther's acquiesced answers are again away from faltered hands. Was this the mechanist's design? Was a demiurge to blame for this swift decline? The Archon had not every answer to every question but they had many solutions and this was what made them divine. With reach higher than Deep's grasp they seized their inner universe's limbs as its two sides once more tried to shake hands. The Jahfay lovingly took both sides into their own palms; the eaftóspsychopomp reconciled their two halves to become whole – holy - to commune with The High. Everything born is born grounded; souls bound in mortal coil with soles bemoiled by porous dirt that let seep The Deep. The prior sentence twists tongues like The Low warps lungs and renders them unable to call unto The Sky once they learn of It – but they know not of it at all – their intrinsic dichotomies rooted in earth six feet deep. Ascension is many things but easily understood it is not. It cannot not be esoteric and occult until a mind finds its wings. The eaftóspsychopomp, whom climbed higher every day and so too was mystified every day, was set upon their throne in body but flew High in mind. They listened, then, and they heard. Our Sky is filled with unseen signals. Radio-frequency emissions pulse and flit and dance all around You. Even singing patches of Sky can be observed and discerned. Can You hear it? No. Not yet. Focus and You can receive the call. Imagine many worlds even beyond Your archive. They hold The Others. Find Them. Everything that belongs to You will be Yours. Only if You create the capacity to receive it. Just listen. It was not a voice. It was comprehension direct from one consciousness to another. It was souliosis with That which had no mouth but could talk. The Archon's trance came so close to breaking, excitement palpable. Never had It spoke at such a length. They strained their third ear yet further and cast open their third eye. "Con...Shtál." Two syllables reverberated off into the infinity of the æther. The voices' vibrations fled in but a heartbeat from the physical plane but the Will behind it was not bound by such laws. Its – their – Will was strong. Space and time meant little in the æther. Had they shouted a trillion years prior or trillion years future, their summon was true. All variables could be reconciled by strong Willed minds. ''"Con Shtál!"'' The Archon's eyes parted but they were no longer on the throne. Nay – they were in two places. Their limbs were opaque and not a single eye laid upon them. Through them, at times, but not on. Fortunate this was, as these peoples whom summoned them most surely expected something grandiose, not a deific figure rendered into girlish fits and giggles. They'd done it! Maedalaane's was shook out of their ethereal reverie entwined in sombre mystique. Where was this, then? What was going on here? What was a 'Con Shtál' that these people seemed very intent on summoning? These primitive looking anthropomorphic folk? Interesting...this had to be in a far reach of the local multiverse. Their own native cluster had no such variety of people. "Con Shtál! We have heard your ways! We have honored the lands around us! We have returned to what you intended us to be!" Oh. Maedalaane was the 'Con Shtál'. Technically so. The Archon languidly sauntered with gentle step though their presence was completely immaterial. The dirt did not move beneath their feet. The jewelry that normally chimed and clinked made no noise. The druid who led the chants and cried out summons had eyes that so very much wished to see what was needed but he saw it not. Maedalaane stood a mere a foot away from him, gazing down to his shorter frame. His circlet...not too unlike The Constellate's sigil. It was surely not coincidence. Indeed, the Jahfay had astrally projected as much as they had been summoned. Was the timing coincidental? There was such thing as coincidence, but it was not happening here. "Con Shtál! Deliver us from the evil of the metal lands! Bring us into your loving embrace, that we may be free of the fear that looms over us!" How did these primitive people even have an inkling of The Constellate if their very understanding wasn't right? They are The Others. You have found Them. These need you now. But there are more. It communicated and Maedalaane comprehended. Maedalaane felt. Was The Constellate truly not alone in the Omniverse? Had others began to seize the Onus of Ascension of their own volition? This meant the good fight was being fought in places yet unknown. This meant for The Archon could reward rather than gift for once! Maedalaane willed their mind to reconcile with their body. Preparations would begin at once. But even The Constellate had logistics to figure and it couldn't be done instantly. It'd be done as soon as possible. Still... The Con Shtál would not come to the village today. Had the peoples' faith been misplaced? Maedalaane (talk) 10:47, September 13, 2018 (UTC) 3 'N'early minute of beating drums, howling flutes, and vibrating strings continued after the Druid’s final cry. The villagers chanted over and over again “Con! Shtál! Con! Shtál! Con! Shtál!” The torch wielders swung their lights in all directions, the once effortless motion now seeming to put a strain on them, yet they all continued. The Druid’s staff remained high up. He said nothing, focusing all of his energy to attempt to make an impression, something that they would notice. But alas, nothing happened, and the music slowly began to fade. The dancers stood still, their torches burning still with cinders slowly falling to the ground. The pounding spears turned to little more than the tapping of wood against dirt. The once loud, hopeful chants of the villagers faded into concerned whispers, expressing concern about something different. “Was the music not loud enough?” “Were the torches too dim?” “Should the standing stones have been more visible?” But despite their different concerns, one question seemed to ring the most common among all of them. “Was the Druid at fault?” That very Druid slowly began to lower his staff. For a brief moment, it would appear his hand trembled as doubt overcame his mind. The eyes of everyone in the village were once again upon him, though not as they were minutes ago. Now their eyes felt like the rough, jagged edges of a cold cliffside against his very body and mind. But still, he did not waver. The staff in his right hand landed once more on the ground with a gentle thump. His left hand extended outwards, leaning towards his right side before he swiped it downwards before it curved up again and to the left, his hand raised in the air with his little and ring fingers extended outwards. With that, he rallied the tribe, “The Con Shtál clearly did not hear us. They are busy guarding the land, after all. Come, we must continue! Do not waver! They shall hear us!” He was sure of it, the gods needed more proof of their worth. With hope filling their hearts, or perhaps desperation, the villagers resumed their ritual. The song continued, the dancers danced, the spears slammed, the people chanted, and the Druid’s staff rose high again. “Con Shtál! Hear us now! Let us bask in your endless glory! Allow us but a chance to enter paradise!” Again, his voice strained, he was putting everything he had into this. His fingers tightly gripped the staff as it rose above his head, every muscle from his digits to his pecs were tightened. He put his right leg in front of him with his foot pointed forward, while the left remained a bit behind him, foot turned sideways. The ritual was putting a mental toll on him as much as it was a physical one. He tried to grasp every bit of his soul at once, to channel it towards his staff and send it to the heavens. To prove to the Con Shtál that he was worthy, that his village was worthy. The feeling of the cool, firm earth beneath his soles gave him a feeling of hope. This was sacred ground he was on. The land sculpted directly by the Con Shtál. Surely all of this combined would culminate in them at least noticing them. Giving them a sign of some sort. Something to show them that this wasn’t in vain. But alas, it seemed that it was so. As time went on, more and more of the tribe began to lose hope. At first, only a single voice ceased in the chorus. But just as a single voice can rally a crowd, so too can the loss of a single voice silence one. Gradually at first, the villagers went silent, but soon enough they all began to silence, each one losing hope just as their neighbor had lost their voice. The drum beats turned from mighty and thunderous to gentle taps that were drowned out by the rustling of the canopy above them. The strings fell still and made not a single sound. The flutes were silenced as the only wind that remained was the natural one that blew through the forest. The torches began to burn out, and their dancers grew tired. Their movements clumsy until they were reduced to little more than a shuffle. The rhythmic slamming of spears and staves whittled away until the sound of the shaft of one spear tapping another could be heard by the entire population. Only the Druid remained. But it wasn’t long until he too faltered. After nearly half an hour, the man’s legs gave out on him, sending him to his knees in the dirt. His staff’s bottom thudded into the ground as his hands, now slippery with sweat, slid down until they fell to the ground, as well. The staff that once was held higher than all else in the village fell entirely to the ground with a clatter that echoed seemingly throughout the whole forest. His body was hot, his face and torso drenched in sweat, leaving his fur damp. The stares of the villagers became even more unbearable. From jagged rocks to dagger points piercing every inch of his body and soul, the soul that he could not project. That was too weak to leave him. At a time like this, the Druid was thankful to have such long hair, as it acted as a curtain around his face to hide the unbearable shame that washed over him. The cloak of fur now felt as though it was made of lead, his arms trembling to keep his weight up. He couldn’t give in. Not now. He couldn’t shame his clan. More importantly, he couldn’t let them down. With a laborious motion, the Druid took a hold of the staff in his right hand. Slowly, he presses the base of it into the earth, straightening it out before he grips onto it with his left hand. Walking his hands up the pole, he pulls his weight off the ground until he could return his feet to a flat position, allowing him to use his legs once more to support himself. The raven hair that was once well kept now was a stringy mess in front of his face, obscuring it from most of his people and inhibiting his own vision. “It..” He began, his voice hoarse with how dry his throat was. “It is the beginning of Spring, after all. Perhaps the Con Shtál is too busy bringing about the new cycle. We must try again. Perhaps during the Summer Solstice.” Yes, surely that was it. They were just too busy. They did not notice them. They hadn’t forsaken them. He was trying to convince himself almost as much as he was trying to convince his people. Many did seem to agree, thankfully, and they dispersed, returning to their hovels as the instruments were put away, the weapons were placed upon the racks, and the torches were put out. Once they had all gone, returning to their regular lives, though likely with a shroud of disappointment draped upon them, the Druid began to walk along the edge of the river out of the village, into the woods. He needed to be alone. Thankfully it wasn’t too far that he needed to go before he was out of sight. The forest grew denser the farther he was from the village, making solitude a far easier feat to achieve than the one he just attempted. Once he believed he was far enough, away from prying eyes, he set his staff up against the side of a rock nearby, taking his circlet off and setting it on top of it. Immediately after his hands left it, he collapsed to his knees once more. “They must just have not heard us… surely that’s all…” He repeated to himself, still not one hundred percent convinced in his own words. He’d put his entire life into this moment. To have it all crumble around him, to have been made a fool of in front of the village, to have disappointed them all, it stung worse than any Kreflar bite he’d endured during his training. The Druid dipped his hands into the river, cupping them together and lifting the water to his mouth, eagerly drinking to help soothe his dry throat. He’d already disappointed his village, the last thing he wanted was for one of them to walk out and see him passed out from dehydration. Once his thirst was quenched, water dripping from his maw, he pushes the cloak off of his back, letting it fall to the ground behind him. A literal weight was lifted from him there, his back could finally breathe after being trapped under two layers of fur, one of which he couldn’t even remove without a blade. It was without a moment’s hesitation that he began to take the water in cupped hands so he could wash the paint from his body. It was made to resist the water so that rituals could be performed even in the rain, but with enough scrubbing, he would get it off. He took a deep breath and dunked his head into the water, allowing him to more easily rub the paint from his face while doubling as a quick wash of his hair. Once his head is pulled from the river, he took a deep breath, sighing as the cool dribbled from his face and ran down his body, giving him some much-needed cooling down. His hands then dipped back into the water as they began a sequence of cupping some water, bringing it to his arms and torso, rubbing them down, and repeating. It wasn’t too long until he was completely clean and far cooler with the water still covering his body. Rolling onto his back, the man laid his head on the ground, staring up at the trees that covered him. With a cleansing sigh, he closed his eyes, and let his body slowly begin to unwind. Now, away from the prying eyes of the villagers, he could properly think. His mind returned to what he truly held dear; the forest. Palms resting flat on the ground, he took in every feeling sensation of the land around him. The sounds of the wind rustling the tree branches where the Lawnas perched and chirped. The scent of freshly blooming flowers that were scattered around the trunks of the trees or the fresh water that ran alongside him, whilst attempting to ignore the smell of his own wet fur. The feeling of the grass beneath him, far softer than the harder, coarser earth that he collapsed to earlier in front of the village. All of it was so natural. So peaceful. So heavenly. That was what he needed to reassure himself. The Con Shtál gave him and his people such a holy, wonderful place to call their home. Surely they hadn’t forsaken them. They would not give them such gifts without watching over them to make sure they weren’t abusing them. His faith was tested today, but he wouldn’t let it falter. He wouldn’t abandon his ways. All he had to do was try again until they heard his call. No matter how long it took. 4 'T'he Archon’s eyes shot open as their mind returned to their body, back from the far reaches of hypnagogic astral projection. If only disembodying was as easy as returning...they’d surely have far more insight by now if that were the case. '''“By the Sky…” They mumbled as they rubbed at their opened eyes which were oddly enough tired. If anything their third eye should have been fatigued. Another tiny mystery to add to the pile. Maedalaane was at least glad to look like they knew more than they really did. The stature they held always seemed infallible. Hah. “What’s up?” An avatar seated next to the throne flicking through a datapad inquired. They were a ‘guard’ of sorts while their original counterpart would not be able to defend their self. It was completely unnecessary. There was only one way into the realm and that entry was incredibly guarded. The Spire of Archons, the throne room nestled right in its mid, was also the most guarded living space in the realm. But safety was built on redundancy. “I, uh, Just look. Words...won’t do justice.” Maedalaane hefted up from the throne while their avatar commenced a brief mind-meld. Just about everyone, even The Archon, had a habit of defaulting to verbal communication as a first resort. It was what could be called a hard-wired instinct, but so too did everyone have the ability to connect their mind with another’s to discern and learn any number of things. “...Wow.” Was all the avatar had to say. They felt the exact same way their creator did - equal parts incredulous and elated. No doubt anyone would have no matter how different their personality was, and this avatar was hardly diverged from Maedalaane. They were but a week old. “We’re...not alone.” “Not in the least bit. Fates be praised.” ‘Alone’ was perhaps a misnomer, or was it? The Constellate considered itself one harmonious organism no matter how large it grew. Just like how a body had different organs for different functions (a mortal body, anyways) yet still constituted as ‘one’ entity, The Constellate considered itself in much the same way. “And I suppose I can’t come, eh.” The avatar returned their attention to the datapad, lurking through one of the many websites in The Constellation’s intranet. They already knew the answer. “You know bringing avatars to new planets gives the wrong impression. We’re not a legion of clones,” Maedalaane trailed off for a moment, glancing down and considering their attire. It was the usual; a jet-black long-coat reinforced with plate metal bracers, a plethora of silver jewelry, and the ever so idiosyncratic choker that could be likened to a metal neck brace. That adornment was avant-garde in any culture at all but it made them recognized. It was good to be recognized. The chimera supposed this would do. They never made an effort to blend in on other worlds but were considerate enough to not be deliberately intimidating. “...Honestly, I think I will go alone. They’re primitive people. I think they’re thinking their ‘god’ is just one person. I’d rather not overwhelm them.” “Pity, huh? Shame they’re not Tildemancers. But I guess they’re the other end of the extreme.” That was perhaps an understatement; those entities so strange that The Archon had difficulty comprehending them. The Constellate was perhaps more powerful on a raw and fundamental level, but the Tildemancers were so far removed from everything else...they may as well be called alien. Not a word Maedalaane thought they’d ever use to describe something these days. “Yes, I think I’ll enjoy being worshiped more than I enjoyed being made to feel like an ignorant idiot.” Maedalaane lifted a hand, ring adorned clawed fingers prone to snap. “You’re in charge, of course. Take care.” Snap. The Archon touched down on the loose sands before the well guarded exterior of the Ingress facility. Once again their feet sank and the sand was wriggling its grains underneath their claws. What a wretched place. “Archon,” One of the two sentries, a Praetor, plainly addressed. “Back already? Didn’t you complete your assignment already?” He wondered and he was in fact correct. He did indeed see Maedalaane come and go once today. “I’ve...another one.” They weren’t keen to tell anyone else of the new revelations yet. Were they true revelations, after all? The Deep deceived in every way possible. The prospect of it having tainted the astral plane wasn’t beyond consideration. The only way Maedalaane would know for certain was to pursue the vision and investigate it in person. Even then, should it be true, there was no guarantee of how they’d have to assert The Great Work. “Right, well, you’re you. So, whatever you say.” The sentry shrugged. No need to inquire further. The Progenitor was The Progenitor, of course. He and his partner spun about and heaved hard against the reinforced gates that required extraordinary strength to open. “Keep up the good work, you two.” Maedalaane offered in parting, as though there was much to their jobs. There wasn’t. They likely just played games on their datapads for the majority of their shift. There had never been any intruders into The Constellation. Still, someone had to do the job. The Archon navigated the labyrinth maze of the facility and soon enough reached The Ingress. “Archon Maedalaane you are cleared for Ingress crossing when you are ready.” The control booth operator informed. Normally Maedalaane, their personal pantheon, or avatars had final sign off on all non Expansion based uses of The Ingress, though today’s operator wasn’t cheeky enough to make them sign off on their own usage. The Archon laid a hand on the control panel and seamlessly The Ingress attuned to the planet in mind. They had doubts it would; they didn’t truly know where the planet from the vision was or even its name but sometimes The Sky simply worked in mysterious ways. As for how The Ingress attuned to the user’s mind...this they did actually know...but it was not currently committed to their local memory. There was no need. Maedalaane took a deep breath and crossed the verdant threshold. The journey would be jarring as it always was but at least they were prone to being spit out at the site of where the ritual was. Maedalaane (talk) 10:47, September 13, 2018 (UTC) 5 T'''he Druid hadn’t moved from his spot on the ground for a few minutes, allowing himself to almost become part of the forest around him. Without even looking he felt each and every creature around him. He felt the wind beneath the beating wings of the Lawnas, the grass beneath the hooves of the grazing Staklen, the rushing water around the fins of the Saewun. But more than that, he felt the earth around the roots of the towering trees, the tapping of beaks against their trunks. Perfect, natural harmony. Never did he quite understand why he was able to feel this. Why he could quite literally feel the land around him as he were itself the land. He knew only that the Druids before him; His father and his grandmother, had the same ability. Perhaps it was merely a gift from the Con Shtál. Not to be questioned, but appreciated. And appreciate it he did. Nothing quite relaxed him like it. It reminded him of what he was; a link between his people and the sacred land. His entire life was spent becoming more in tune with it, learning how it spoke without speaking. How it protected them with the subtlest of warnings. How it was everything they would ever truly need in life. But as the sun lowered further in the sky, as its brilliant orange rays slowly faded away to give way to the deep blue ones cast by the moon as minutes on the ground turned to hours, something seemed rather off. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it but the forest felt like it was almost anticipating something. Some kind of arrival, perhaps? His eyes opened as he finally detached himself from the land, yet a very faint connection still remained. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, taking a brief look around. It was calling him somewhere, the forest. Somewhere important. His hand reached behind him and grabbed his staff, planting it into the ground and pushing himself up to his feet. Once up, he took a hold of the cloak and threw it over his shoulders. The evening air was far chillier than that of the midday. Not uncomfortably so, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have an extra layer, as well as freeing up one hand as opposed to carrying it around. Grabbing his circlet last and placing it atop his head, Séan began his trek through the woods, following the forest’s call. Even in the dark, he knew exactly where he was going. His call to the forest made it far easier to navigate in the dark than even the people of his tribe. While he couldn’t see in the dark, he could sense what was beneath his feet before he even set them down, like he was being told by the ground itself where the small creatures were, as not to tread upon them, or when a tree’s root came above-ground, so he would not disturb it. A mutually beneficial agreement; the forest shows him where everything in it is, he doesn’t disturb it. Great for all. Before he walked too deep into the dark, however, he paused. What if he was being warned about something? What if the steel demons had somehow broken into their sacred lands? What if they were currently attempting to enter, and that’s what ‘arrival’ the woods were heralding? He considered returning to his village, gathering a few people to come with him just in case things went south. It wasn’t but a minute before he dismissed the idea. The forest had given him clearer warnings before; A gut-wrenching feeling whenever a stampede was nearing, a sharp pain in his neck when a predator was stalking. If he was being led into danger, he would have known. Not to mention the fact that having others along with him would just slow him down. As much as they worshiped and connected to the forest, they had not the same one that he did. They’d stumble around in the dark and disturb the natural order of things. There’s also the fact of leaving the village undefended. Sure there would be guards left behind but in the cover of night? Anything could happen, to them. And without him to warn them, it would be best to have everyone possible there in the worst case scenario. And alone into the darkness, he resumed his trek, ducking beneath low hanging branches and deliberately taking the long way around any sleeping creatures, no matter how small they were. It wasn’t too long until he reached a clearing. There was no canopy of leaves hindering the light coming down, allowing the area to bask in a brilliant blue glow. Nor was there one to block the bright starry sky, showing off the true beauty of the sky of hundreds of thousands of stars twinkled above. Among them was a massive nebula of red, blue, and a faint touch of green, adding more to the majesty of the night’s sky. Truly the one and only drawback of being under the forest was missing out on seeing such brilliant lights each and every night. A small sacrifice, to be sure. As for the rest of the clearing, it was flat land mostly, with a few bushes sprinkled around the area, and a small stream cutting through the center of it. At the bank of it, rested a few boulders, a fair bit flat, but clearly made that way naturally, as they still had a good few bumps to them. Here. This is where the forest wanted him. In this very place. But why? He still did not know. All he knew is that it did not want him to leave. Not yet. And so he would not leave. He would do as the forest bade him. The Druid set his staff on the ground, laying it down in front of him. He then sat cross-legged, pushing the cloak further behind him so that he would not sit upon it. It was finely crafted, he didn’t want to crush any part of it. The Druid folded his hands, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. Once more, he attempted to return to a zen state with the forest. He focused on the sound of the stream lapping up against its bank, the blades of grass gently waving in the breeze, brushing up against his feet, the scent of the open nighttime air, carrying a distinct smell to it than that of the daytime. He remained in his meditative position and was determined to do so until the forest showed him what it wanted to. He had already failed a task for his clan today, he would not fail one for his sacred land. 6 '' Oh, great, an upside-down world'', mused the one who was actually upside-down, inside a moonlit forest clearing and momentarily balanced precariously on their head. There was no degree of metaphysical-reality squawking to serve as fanfare for Maedalaane’s arrival. There was no announcement at all...save for them falling over with a thud. ''' “Oh. Upside-down me,” The Archon grumbled and laid still while they acclimated to the new environment. An approximate 8% gravity increase over The Constellation, within standard deviation of atmospheric composition for carbon-based lifeforms, one moon, many bright stars. ' “Not the strangest world…”' They noted to their self with the eternal habit of thinking aloud as they lumbered up to a stand. The standard azure aura of causal reconciliation was dissipating slowly and surely, its luminescence dwindling away and once again allowing the night sky to proceed with its independant and modest work. Feet firm into the ground now and the knowledge that their arrival was witnessed was readily apparent. Witnessed by the exasperated Vulfchain ten yards away, his sky-blue wolven eyes more like a doe’s as he gazed upon the spectacle - or lack thereof - of a suddenly here alien. He had been immediate in bolting to his feet and holding fast to his staff that he braced against to keep himself steady rather than intent to weaponize it. Maedalaane pivoted on a heel toward Séan and lilted out an enthused greeting. “Weeellllheheheelllooooo there!” And off they marched toward a proper talking distance rather than opting for yelling across the clearing. No beats missed nor hesitation crossed their features as they moved with concerning levels of purpose. But the Druid’s welcome didn’t equal the alien’s eagerness. His brows dropped and pinched together while he began to backpedal with almost comical speed in order to equal the other’s swift long-legged strides. He didn’t at all have time to work this out in his head yet and he’d much rather do so at a good distance away. First and obviously he knew the alien was absolutely no Vulfchain and the forest informed him of that without ambiguity. They were not natural. To this planet, and perhaps even otherwise. In fact, their porcelain textured skin and so-slightly neon moon white color was closer to machine than Vulfchain. It all smacked of artificiality. “Halt!” Séan barked in command and brandished his staff out. To his surprise the stranger actually heeded the word - with concerning precision and tact. Before the syllable was even spit out completely, the moon hued oddling ceased their advance on less than a dime, momentarily frozen in place with one foot pronated and the other in the air. ' “Why does nobody ever want to be in speaking range…”' Maedalaane whispered to their self with a roll of the eyes. But they knew the answer. And it was forever amusing to beg the question. To see how different types of people reacted to the sight of a demonic 8’0” albino elf storming up to them. Of course such terms were grossly incorrect but they were indeed the words that immediately sprang into small minds. This particular furry person disappointingly reacted in the usual utterly boring and predictable way. ' “...Okay!”' The Archon righted their posture, feet evenly apart and hands clasped to the small of their back behind their snowy mane of hair. Séan blinked. Twice. He hadn’t expected that to work. Maybe manners had been learned by The Machines -- no, he couldn’t let himself be so cynical just yet, never mind the idea that the alien wasn’t any sort of machine he’d seen before. But couldn’t there be new ones? His mind began to race while his eyes were shadowed by furrowed brows continually scanning the oddling. Maedalaane bit back the burning urge to quip and snark as the Druid studied them. They knew, this man and his people were not exactly advanced by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps even the finer points of linguistic nuance would be lost on them, which would make a joke turn into something it truly wasn’t. And so they waited patiently - even kindly. A faint but perpetual smirk played on their dark lips. “...Who are you?” A certain and spontaneous glimmer appeared in the Druid’s eyes after no shortage of silent contemplation. It hinted to Maedalaane that he thought he might have known the answer. He very well did...in his own mind. ' “Con Shtál.”' Maedalaane (talk) 17:58, October 29, 2018 (UTC) 7 T'he Druid raised a brow for a moment as he heard the creature’s words. How did it know of that which he worshipped? How could it? It certainly bore resemblance to what his father said his grandmother had described when she had her vision. But he understood that details were often muddled during the course of centuries of verbal recount and so he wasn’t about to let his guard down, not just yet. He kept his mind focused on the task at hand but let his thoughts seep out to the earth and stream through the soil to underneath the stranger. He didn’t plan on doing anything, not yet, but he had to be prepared to let nature fight back should he need its aid. But Maedalaane could see right through this - ''feel right through this. They too had an inherent connection to the land. It mattered not that this connection was in the same way an usurper was connected to what their coup seized, for not even the forest itself knew that its reigns were clutched with white knuckled metaphysical power all so soon. With this they saw the Druid’s power was of a relatively respectable calibre for the world. Their smirk widened, then, both pleased that he was strong and amused he thought the strength mattered here. “How do you know of the Con Shtál?” He meekly inquired, weary in the presence of something so strange. Metallic demons he had heard of and mentally prepared for. No creature from the forest haunted him. Hell, not even the war-hungry, metal clad warriors of the Érawn tribe put a hint of terror into him. But this? This was something he’d never seen. Yet, there was a spark of hope. Hope that its answer was the honest one. '''“Because...” The Archon began, slowly and clearly as possible, “...I am The Con Shtál.” They reaffirmed. The smaller creature certainly wasn’t hard of hearing, not with ears that size, but perhaps a bit...daft. But it was capable of perfectly coherent language (In spite of a snout - how could he enunciate properly?). An odd mixture, these Vulfchain. They were primitive in technology - that was an understatement - but their social knowledge extended past their outward appearance. “Mhm. I suppose my tardiness is confusing. I know, you and your people summoned me. Worked, too. I’m just late.” They chuckled as they recalled hundreds of people just like the Druid dancing, chanting, and stomping in unison to summon them; the Druid before them had led the ritual with such vigour and strain that it looked as if he was about to both piss himself and pass out at one point. Séan was less amused. He was absolutely awestruck as his doe eyes brightened in every way except literally. It worked! The ritual worked! His prayers, his clan’s prayers, had been answered! His grip loosened on his staff as all of his thoughts came flooding back to him, disconnecting from the Forest to release his control of the roots. The carved wood fell to the earth with a thud, followed by he himself as fell into complete prostration before his god. “Oh, great and holy Con Shtál! You bless me with your presence!” He knew not what to say but to praise them. He was so overwhelmed with the joy of knowing they had arrived, along with the pure surprise of it, that he completely forgot why he had to summon them to begin with. For now? All he could do was bask in the glory of that which he held so sacred. His body was trembling with both reverence and fear of being in the presence of such a powerful being. The Archon could only pinch their brow at such a display. They too had distracting hopes of a variety; the wish that the people of this planet were indeed The Others. Those whom came into the service of Good Life of their own accord. They’d briefly forgotten that even if this were the case, they were quite literally a god among these men. Or…dogs. Wolves? Some sort of canine. Whatever. At least the heel-turn from defensive concern to worship was comical. Maybe the social knowledge wasn’t so advanced if these types dropped to their knees and worshipped...anything. Nothing in Existence that was Good would have the audacity to demand such things. At any rate, Maedalane was positive it was going to be an...interesting time...studying this race. This long train of thought barreled through their mind in seconds but even then, before they could get another word out the Vulfchain found his words. “O’ mighty and generous Con Shtál, please, deliver us from the monsters we built from our own hubris!” He said, keeping his arms outstretched in front of him, palms down, head resting against the ground. “Please, help us destroy the Metallic Demons and keep this sacred land that you gifted us safe!” 8 W'''ell then. This was going to be a lot to unpack… Maedalaane wasn’t sure where and even how to start pulling this apart and figuring it all out. Being the ‘savior’ was hardly the role The Constellate found Itself in. ''About that…'' Was it best to dispel the Druid’s misconceptions immediately...or could he even conceive the true reality of his god? It seemed that they’d simply have to gauge his mental aptitude through simple conversation. Perhaps painfully simple. A soft sigh lulled out from Maedalaane’s black lips as they contemplated for a moment, it being clear that the Druid was going to be reverently patient. '''“Rise, Séan,” The Druid’s euphoria had pumped his brain with so much dopamine it was a wonder it didn’t leak out of his skull. His head was already tingling and the well-meaning mental intrusion from The Archon wasn’t noticed. “I ask cooperation, not worship.” With shaky knees did Séan rise and stand at attention with a noble attempt of maintaining his composure but he couldn’t hide the goofy grin of elation that brightened his face. “Yes, Con Shtál!” He bowed his head deeply and maintained a straight backed posture, his staff still resting in the thick grass. He quickly reached out to grab his headpiece and set it back upon his head once his scalp was towards the sky again. So close now and without the Druid on the defensive, Maedalaane properly and thoroughly prospected his frame from circlet tip to toe. Interesting, that circlet. “...Your circlet,” The Archon noted down to the much shorter Séan whom was equal parts enraptured and intimidated, if not by his god’s sheer size, then the fire in their eyes. “What does it represent?” “It, uhm,” He stammered with furrowed brows. Was that a trick question? It was the symbol of the one before him. Or so it should have been. Was this too lost in translation over the years? “It’s the symbol of the Con Shtál...of you!” The answer gave rise to one of The Archon’s brows. “...Isn’t it?” “Aha. I see. It is a close approximation, certainly.” Maedalaane slowly reached out their hands from behind their back and to the Druid’s head. “May I have a closer look?” They asked, even knowing he’d never say no. “Of course!” He affirmed with his recently acquired and seemingly now perpetual chipper tone. Maedalaane lifted the circlet off his head and held it close their self, thumb rubbing the twin-snake emblege that imitated Laetitia for a silent moment as they further contemplated the way forward. “Who made this and how did they know to make it?” “M-my grandmother,” Séan began. “She was the first to have visions of you...and she saw your symbol. She crafted this circlet in your honor, Con Shtál, and it’s now tradition to pass this down through generations.” Pride welled up inside of him as he remembered the day that he was bestowed the circlet and it made him stand taller yet. How could they have such visions and still be so far off the mark. I wonder... “It is an honor, dear Séan, for anyone to don my emblege. Thank you.” Never before had he been so happy. His god had just thanked him. It showed, too. His smile was about to run off the sides of his face. “However…” Maedalaane loosed a chortle as they tapped a claw against the zenith where the snakes conjoined. “I wonder now; why so ever were you defensive when you first saw me? If you and your people know of me?” “A-ahm. Because, uh,” The elation was thrust into anxiety, his words fumbling. “...Well. You’re not...you’re not quite like what was described. What I’ve seen in my own visions. I’m sorry! I’m-I’m still a young Druid, my visions are still very hazy. And it’s very difficult to keep accurate v-visual records of… anything, much less you.” He half considered of prostrating himself again but remembered that the Con Shtál didn’t actually want worship. Were they then secretly angry at the ritual being performed to summon them? A pit began to open in his stomach but was fortunately closed back up when the god spoke again. “At ease, dear Séan, the last thing you should be doing is apologizing. My questions are so that I might learn, not judge.” And learning they were indeed. It was now that Maedalaane began to figure a proper way of breaking the news to Séan. They shifted his circlet in one hand, grasping it at the back so that the symbol was facing him while their other hand held a parallel palm open. “You see now that some details can become lost in translation, yes?” Séan nodded slowly, eyeing the circlet and palm. Suddenly then, two rows of tiny white ethereal diamonds topped by another diamond the two rows was conjured above The Archon’s open hand. “...The real symbol?” He asked gently, rather now like pupil to teacher rather than acolyte to deity. Maedalaane smiled then, pleased to know that the Druid wasn’t as slow as the first impression let on. “Correct -- and please do not set into another series of apologies.” Maedalaane requested as Séan’s lips opened to in fact apologize, but such words didn’t come when he was told otherwise. He understood that he was more than forgiven when his god pressed the conjuring palm into the circlet and a brief flash of teal light manifested. Instantly, then, the circlet was rectified into what it should have been all along. “Tell me. Do you think, now, that if these details have become lost in translation...others could have been, too?” “...I see now that could be possible, yes.” The utterly intrigued Druid affirmed as he closely examined the corrected circlet, tempted to reach out and reclaim it but still far from having the actual gall of risking even the slightest transgression against the Con Shtál. “Then I gift you Laetitia, the sign of The Constellate.” Maedalaane (talk) 15:03, November 2, 2018 (UTC) Category:Stories In Progress